


A Touch of the Old Uncanny

by Wotwotleigh



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse, Reggie Pepper - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Background Femslash, Gen, Pre-Canon, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-19 14:47:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9446090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wotwotleigh/pseuds/Wotwotleigh
Summary: Shortly before meeting Jeeves, Bertie has a strange adventure with a fellow member of the Drones.





	1. Chapter 1

Have I ever told you about the strange affair of Reggie Pepper? I suppose I probably haven’t, because it all happened before Jeeves came along, and I find that most of the stuff from the Before Jeeves era lacks a certain punch. It doesn’t hold the public’s interest. Not that I utterly lack fascination when taken on my own, but a Bertram without a Jeeves is rather like a slab of icing without any cake. Or is it the other way round? 

Nevertheless, this particular little episode, dating though it does to the pre-Jeeves epoch of my career, is one that I find to be fraught with interest. This is due in no small part to the fact that I can’t jolly well make heads or tails of it, despite having had a ringside seat to the entire entertainment. I’ve tried telling Jeeves about it a couple times, and he just looks at me as if I were nature’s last word in human goofiness. Sometimes he bungs in a “Most peculiar, sir.” Not particularly helpful, if you see what I mean. Maybe it’ll make more sense if I write out the whole sordid tale, and then my dear readers can have a whack at sorting it all out for themselves. 

It happened during my first engagement to Florence Craye, just before Jeeves shimmered into my life and mercifully scuppered the thing. I was still employing Meadowes at the time, and although I am a tolerant sort of cove, my patience with the man was well past the wearing-thin point. In fact, I had just given him the sack and was spending a few days in London in the hopes of rustling up a new valet before returning to my uncle Willoughby’s place in Shropshire for the remainder of my customary summer holiday. 

Having made my stop at the agency office, I decided to take a bit of a stroll. It was a pleasantly sunny afternoon, although a bit hot for my liking. I had just about decided to give it up and ankle off to the club for a cooling restorative when I caught sight of someone I knew: a fellow member of the Drones by the name of Reggie Pepper. 

This Reggie was one of the old-fashioned knuts, something of a relic of an earlier age. I couldn’t have told you how old he was, but if I had to take a stab at it I would have placed him somewhere in his thirties or forties. Positively ancient, by Drones standards. He was the sort of bird who always looked as if the hand of some invisible marionetteer was the only thing keeping him more or less vertical. If he'd been on the RMS Titanic when it went down, he no doubt would have been sprawled out in a deck chair with a brandy and s. in his hand, muttering "Dashed rotten luck," just before the aft section upended him into the drink. Imagine my surprise, then, when I encountered him strolling along in Piccadilly Circus with a positively purposeful air. 

“What ho, Reggie!” I cried, giving him a jaunty wave. 

He sort of slowly unfurled, like a shy snail presented with a lettuce leaf. He dug out a monocle, shoved it onto his map, and gave me a leisurely once-over before finally answering. “Is that Bertie Wooster?” he called out. 

“It is,” I said as I hove to. “What are you doing out and about, Reggie? I thought you were more or less nailed to the settee by the Drones smoking room window.” 

“Just on an errand, you know, for a chum who’s in need of aid and succor. Where is your hat, my lad?” 

I groped the bean in surprise. “I seem to have forgotten it,” I said, a bit sheepishly. 

“Leave it at the club?” he asked sympathetically. 

“No, at the flat. I suppose I’ve been out all day without it.” I reached into my pocket for a handkerchief to mop the sodden brow, but came up empty handed. “My handkerchief, too,” I said sadly. 

“Well, you’d better come with me before you catch your death of sunstroke.” 

“Where are we going?” I asked, gamely turning to tag along. But Reggie didn’t answer right away. He seemed lost in thought. 

“You ought to get yourself a good man,” he said abruptly. 

I was a bit startled by this turn in the conversation. Rather Parisian, it seemed to me. “What do you mean, old egg?” I asked, wondering if he’d got a touch of the sun himself. 

“A man,” he repeated. “A gentleman’s gentleman. A valet. They’re indispensable, you know. I don’t know how so many of you young fellows nowadays get along without one.” 

Understanding dawned. “Oh, ah!” I said. “Well, as a matter of fact, I had one. I had to hand him the mitten only yesterday. Aside from being an inveterate clomper, he had a tendency to pinch anything that wasn’t bolted to the floor.” 

“Oh, I say, that is too bad.” 

“What’s more, he took far too much interest in the state of my soul. One night he got religion and ticked me off properly in front of Barmy and a few of the other lads for being a ‘moral leper’ or some such rot.” 

Reggie had a sort of thoughtful, dreamy look in his eye. “Some people do get it up their nose a bit about that sort of thing, what? Souls, you know. I shouldn’t worry about it much. You’re a good egg.” 

“Oh, thanks,” I said, although I hadn’t been so awfully worried about it. 

“The great thing,” he went on, “is to have some sort of a purpose. As long as you’re a soundish egg and have a bit of a purpose, you’ll get along all right. It doesn’t have to be anything grand.” 

I admit I was a bit floored by all this. If there was one thing old Reggie had never struck me as, it was philosophical. And yet here he was, gassing on about souls and purposes, as if he’d really got much of either. “Oh? Do you have a purpose, Reggie?” I asked. 

“I have a sympathetic ear,” he said, tapping the organ in question. “Always have had. So I suppose my purpose is to lend it to people. I’m never able to be much help, but it does seem to be some sort of comfort.” With that, he stopped so suddenly that I nearly crashed into him. “Well, here we are, what?” 

We had come up alongside a rather nondescript tearoom, and I thought at first that this must be the “here” in question. But Reggie pointed to a sign in a dim window above the establishment with a languid wave of his impeccably rolled umbrella. It read, in elegant red and gold hand-stenciled letters:

MADAME NURA  
SPIRITUALIST · PSYCHIC · MEDIUM


	2. Chapter 2

I would be misleading my public if I said that I liked this turn of events. Following so hard upon the abovementioned philosophical chinwag, the realization that my companion intended to drag me into the lair of a Spiritualist filled me with a certain apprehension. I was reminded of the time Bingo was briefly engaged to a Blavatskian Theosophist, with the result that he was absolutely insufferable about the Intelligent Evolution of All Existence for about a week straight. 

“I say,” I said. “Are we going to go see a medium?” 

“ _I_ am,” said Reggie. “You can do what you like, of course.” 

“But . . . whatever for? I mean, far be it from me to cast aspersions on another chap’s deeply held whatsits, but isn’t that stuff rather by way of being a bit of . . . well, a humbug?” 

Reggie shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I wouldn’t ask me, anyway. I’m a frightful chump about that sort of thing. I’m just going along for a friend. Old Nigel Nettering, don’t you know.” 

“I see.” 

“He’s wooing this girl, you know, but he just can’t seem to make any headway with her. She’s most awfully spiritual. A card-carrying member of the Spiritualists’ National Union and all that sort of rot. We got the idea that he might try taking her to a séance.” 

“Ah. Trying to impress her with his hidden depths?” 

“Just so.” 

“And you decided to rally round and lend a bit of the old moral support?” 

“Quite. And as it happens, I’m also a personal friend of the medium. That’s why I suggested this particular joint. I’ve asked her to put in a good word on the old boy’s behalf. Have the spirits build up his fine, soulful qualities and the yearning emptiness of his heart and whatnot.” 

“I see!” I said, nodding sagely. It was all becoming clear to me now. Rather a neat wheeze, I thought. 

“Well, are you coming up, old man?” asked Reggie. 

“Right ho,” I said. “Lay on, Macduff!” 

\--- 

Madame Nura’s headquarters were a dark and stuffy affair, located at the top of a narrow and rather niffy staircase. The whole place was draped in curtains and rugs of various descriptions – fluttery, gauzy ones here and thick, brocaded things there. A cascade of beads hung in the doorway that separated the public area from whatever lay beyond. There was a table in the middle of the room with a hefty-looking candle on it, and a couple of people seated at it, conversing in hushed tones. These, I surmised, must be Reggie’s friend Nigel and the adored obj. 

“What ho,” I said, hoping to break the rather tense silence that hung over the place. The seated couple nearly leaped out of their skins. 

“Oh,” said the female half of the sketch, rising to her feet. “You must be Mr. Pepper.” 

“No,” I said. I reached up to try and doff my hat, having quite forgotten that there was no hat to doff. “I’m—” 

But before I had a chance to correct her misapprehension, there was a sudden rustling of beads, and a tall, striking sort of beazel emerged from the inner sanctum and swept into the room. Her gown was diaphanous (if diaphanous is the word I want), and her dark hair hung in long waves around her shoulders. She looked like a cinematic vamp of the sort you’d expect to show up in one of those frightful German horror films. 

“Good afternoon,” she said gravely. “I am Madame Nura. Everyone, please, be seated.” 

I did so, although I confess I was feeling none too chuffed about the whole business. I’ve never really gone in for Spiritualism, but the mood of the place was giving me the heebie-jeebies, not to mention the jim-jams and the all-overs. I shot a glance at Reggie, who was seated to my left, but he looked about as excitable as something your local fishmonger would yank off a slab of ice and whack into a bundle of newspaper. 

The young couple, seated to my right, seemed to be taking the thing more in the proper spirit, viz. with a sense of creeping dread. The girl’s eyes were saucer-like, and the chap kept fingering his cravat nervously. 

At this point, I expected some sort of preamble: possibly introductions, or at least a speech of the you-may-be-wondering-why-I’ve-called-you-all-together-today variety. But it seemed that this Nura was of the opinion that this was the sort of thing that, if ‘twere done, tis well it were done quickly. She switched off the already dim lights and took a seat at the head of the table. “I must ask that you all join hands,” she intoned. 

We wasted little time in complying. I was surprised at how cool and dry Reggie’s hand was, given the general atmosphere of the joint. I was relieved that the hand of my female companion on the right was just as damp and wobbly as my own. The instant all mitts were joined and the circle was closed, the fat candle in the middle of the table seemed to flicker into life of its own accord, giving me the dickens of a turn. 

“Today,” Madame Nura began in a tremulous voice, “we call upon those who have moved beyond the veil. We entreat you to speak to us. Is there a spirit present who would like to impart some message to us from the other side?” 

There came, as if in answer, a sharp rapping sound. The girl beside me gasped, and I may have given a bit of a startled yip. 

“Will you reveal yourself to us, Spirit?” demanded Nura. 

The table gave a sort of heave, nearly unshipping the candle and setting off another chorus of gasps and yips. I heard Reggie actually chuckle. “Oh, that is rather a corking bit,” he muttered. I thought I saw Madame Nura shoot him a quick glare, but she went on, undeterred. 

“If you cannot manifest yourself, then speak through me! I shall be your vessel,” she cried. She then proceeded to have what I can only describe as a fit. She chucked back her head, and her eyelids fluttered wildly. When she spoke again, it was in a booming, stentorian voice of the sort that I imagine my Aunt Dahlia used to use when she observed some blighter riding over hounds during her hunting days at the Quorn and Pytchley. 

“I am with you,” she rumbled. “What would you ask of me?” 

There followed a bit of an awkward silence. I shuffled the feet avoided the gaze of my fellow séancers. I felt most awfully out of place all of a sudden, like a fellow blundering into a meeting of the local Temperance Committee after taking a wrong turn on the way to the public house. 

It was the girl who finally broke the awkward s. “S-spirit,” she stammered, “it is I, Myrtle Fynch-Bartley. Have you any message for me?” 

“A man is with me,” said the medium. “He is a recently departed loved one of yours. He passed to the other side not three weeks ago.” 

The girl gasped. “What message does he have for me?”

“He sends his love, and asks that you remind your Aunt Muriel that Auguste must have a bit of steak and kidney pie every evening before his walk, or he shall become depressed.” 

Myrtle (as I now knew her to be called) gave an ecstatic cry and tightened her grip on my fingers. “It really _is_ Uncle Wally!” she said. “He died last month,” she went on, turning to me. “Auguste is his basset hound.” 

“Oh, ah?” I said weakly. I thought I heard the Nigel pill give a quiet snort, but he remained otherwise mum. I couldn’t see what he had to snort about. I thought the whole thing was dashed impressive. Anyway, if Myrtle noticed, she didn’t let on. 

“Do you have any other messages for us from the Beyond?” asked Myrtle eagerly. 

“Yes,” replied Madame Nura. “It concerns one of the other souls in this room.” Her gaze passed slowly over the assembled. “A living soul.” 

She seemed to be gearing up for something rather fruity, so we all listened in rapt silence. 

“There is a man in this room,” she said at last, “who is possessed of a particularly radiant spirit. His aura, if it were completely untarnished, would be nearly blinding to those who have the Sight.” 

At this, Nigel sat up and took notice. Now, he seemed to feel, we were getting somewhere. He straightened his tie and beamed expectantly at Myrtle. 

“But,” continued Madame Nura, the stentorian v. still doing its stuff to excellent effect, “the light of this soul does not burn as brightly as it ought to. It is an afflicted soul. And what, you may ask, is the nature of this affliction?” 

It seemed to be one of those what-do-you-call-it questions, for she went on before any of us could take a whack at an answer. “Loneliness!” she declared. “There is an emptiness in his life – a vacancy, if you will – crying out to be filled. He is lost. He wanders, wanting for nothing but the steady hand of a guide, philosopher, and friend.” 

This business had a striking effect on Myrtle. Her eyes were glittering, her lips slightly parted, and I got the sense that she would have pressed one of her hands to her heart if they hadn’t both been occupied. 

I was just turning to Reggie with an idea of conveying to him, by means of an expressive eyebrow, that he and his medium friend seemed to have hit upon just the right stuff. But at that moment, something happened that probably shaved a good ten years off my life. 

The sequence of events was roughly this. Madame Nura looked directly at me, and said in a portentous sort of way, “Fear not! You will soon be united with the one you seek!” At roughly the same time, a beastly spectral hand appeared from somewhere behind me and came to rest on my shoulder. This time, I confess, I did not merely yip. I gave a strangled yowl and leaped about ten feet in the air, upsetting my chair and dislodging a nearby gauzy curtain in the process. 

In retrospect, I fancy the hand was probably some kind of papier mâché construct covered in phosphorescent paint. But that thought did not occur to me in the moment. I was still standing there clutching at my chest and wheezing when Nigel rocketed out of his own chair, clearly much affected. 

“Oh, for God's sake!" he cried.


	3. Chapter 3

At this point, Madame Nura gave a sort of shudder and pressed her fingers to her temples with a little moan.

“The séance is broken,” she said weakly. “The spirits have departed. You must excuse me for a moment.” She rose unsteadily to her feet and tottered through the beaded curtain, and Reggie followed after with a steadying hand under her elbow. I was left alone with the young couple, and judging from the sudden preponderance of glittering eyes and flaring nostrils, I surmised that I was about to find myself in the presence of a row, or altercation. My insight served me well. The girl was quick to make the opening salvo.

“Nigel!” she hissed. “What on earth is the matter with you?”

“What’s the matter with _me_? You’re the one who believes in all this rot. Ha!” he added, as a sort of aside. “Trust old Reggie to muck it all up.”

“Muck _what_ up?”

“Oh, never mind,” he said darkly.

“And how can you say it’s rot,” she demanded, returning to an earlier point, “when you yourself witnessed Madame Nura communing with my Uncle Walburton?”

“Easy,” he replied nastily. “I told my friend Reggie all about your Uncle Walburton, and he must have passed it on to her. They’re old chums, you know. Reggie and this Madame what’s-her-face, I mean.”

“Is that so! Then how did she know about Auguste and his steak and kidney pie? I’m quite sure I never told you about _that_.”

He appeared momentarily stymied. “Oh, well. You must’ve at some point. Or else she found out some other way. That’s how they work, you know. They ask around about their clients. I’ve read all about it.”

“Well, I must say, Nigel,” the girl shot back in a voice wreathed in icicles, “I never took you for such a narrow-minded skeptic.”

“And I never took you for such an incredulous fathead!”

“Do you mean incredible?”

“No, I said what I meant! I think. Or is it credulous?” He glanced at me, but I could only shrug helplessly. Jeeves would have known, but of course that didn’t do me a fat lot of good at the time.

I was dismayed to find that both parties had now turned their attention to me. Nigel seemed to be doing his best to burn a couple of holes through me with his eyes, and Myrtle was gazing at me in a pitying way. I didn’t care for either approach, but the latter was somewhat better.

“Poor Mr. Pepper,” said Myrtle, and I saw that she had not yet been freed from her earlier misapprehension. “I’m sorry you’ve had to see all this.” She glared at Nigel. “It’s terribly embarrassing.”

“That’s not Reggie,” said Nigel, again with a rather nasty tone.

“Oh, no?”

“No. I’ve never seen this tick before in my life. And I don’t know what gives him the idea he can just stroll into other people’s private séances unannounced.”

“Well, as a matter of fact—” I began, but the Nigel pill plowed ahead.

“Where the devil is Reggie, anyway? I need a word with the blighter!”

“I think he’s—”

“Never mind. I’m not hanging around this looney bin waiting for him to turn up again.” He gathered up his hat and stick, jammed the former on his bean, and paused to give me a parting glare before striding out the door and slamming it behind him. Myrtle, with a snort like an exasperated steam engine, charged after him.

I wondered whether I ought not to follow suit and leg it, for I was none too chuffed to be left alone in a room where spectral hands might crop up at any moment. But before I could take decisive action, Madame Nura reemerged from her private lair and switched on the lights. Her hair was pinned up, and she had doffed the diaphanous robes in favor of some sort of rather ordinary house frock. Reggie filtered in after her, carrying a tea tray.

“Oh, have they gone?” Nura asked, glancing around. “Too bad. This didn’t come off very well at all, did it?”

“Well, not to be critical, Norrie, old girl,” said Reggie, setting the tea tray down on the table, “but I’m afraid you made a bit of a bloomer.”

“Oh, I did, did I?”

“Rather. You built up the wrong chap.”

“First of all, Reggie, it was not I who did the building up, but my Spirit Guide. And second of all, you can hardly blame us for getting confused, when you go bringing extra men into the mix without any warning.”

“Oh,” said Reggie. “But I had to, you know. He’d forgot his hat.”

“I see,” she said, although she did not seem to.

“Anyway, naturally, you would want the chap sitting next to the girl.”

“They were both sitting next to the girl, you silly ass. On either side.”

“Oh,” Reggie repeated. “Ah! But I gave you a description beforehand, didn’t I?”

“You did,” agreed Nura.

“Well, then,” said Reggie triumphantly.

“’A tallish, thinnish, goodish-looking cove. Looks a bit like Jack Buchanan,’” she said, in what I thought was a dashed good imitation of old Reggie.

“There you are!” said Reggie, seeming to feel that this settled things.

“Well, I’d say that describes your friend here pretty well, doesn’t it?” she asked, jerking a thumb in my direction.

“Does it?” asked Reggie, fishing out his monocle again.

“He looks a fair sight more like Jack Buchanan than the other one did,” she said, eyeballing me critically.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Reggie.

“I do. The other fellow had much more of an Al Bowlly sort of a look about him.”

“No, no. Al Bowlly’s got much darker hair than old Nigel.”

It seemed to me that this was not getting us much of anywhere. “I say,” I said. “Can’t you just tell them the spirits made a mistake or something, and all that lonely afflicted soul stuff was meant for Nigel?”

“My dear boy,” said Nura, pouring a cup of tea and handing it to me, “the spirits do not make mistakes.”

“Surely some spirits must,” mused Reggie.

“Well, yes,” said Nura, narrowing her eyes at him. “ _Some_ spirits are web-footed bunglers of the worst sort. But we can’t go telling our paying customers that, can we?”

Just then, the door creaked open, and the recent Myrtle inserted her lemon. “Hullo,” she said softly. “May I come in?”

“Of course you may, my dear,” said Nura. “Have some tea.”

“Oh, thank you, but I can’t stay. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Nigel.”

Madame Nura drifted forward and clasped both of Myrtle’s hands in her own. “It’s quite all right, my dear.”

“No, it’s not. He behaved like an absolute ass. I’m so grateful to you for opening my eyes and helping me see just how unsuitable he is for me. I feel as if a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I told him I never wished to see him again in this life or the next." She paused for a moment, chewing her lower lip. "You know, I’ve been to other mediums before,” she went on, “but I’ve never felt the spiritual presence so keenly as I did with you today.” She lowered her eyelashes shyly. “May I see you again? Socially, I mean. You don’t know how much I’ve craved the society of someone I can talk to about . . . spiritual matters.”

“Yes,” said Nura. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I really think we _must_ see more of each other.” She disengaged with one of Myrtle’s hands in order to reach into the décolletage (her own, not Myrtle’s) and produce a card. “Call on me as soon as you are able. We shall have tea.”

They beamed at each other in silence for a moment, each one reminding me rather strikingly of _The Soul’s Awakening_. Then Myrtle said, “Well—good-bye!” and abruptly turned to leave, her face pinkening prettily. She paused for a moment with her hand on the door, and turned to look at me. “I do hope you’ll find whomever it is you’re looking for,” she said, and biffed off.

“Oh, Reginald,” sighed Nura, once she was gone. “She is rather exquisite, isn’t she? I didn't get a good look at her before, with the lights off.” 

"I suppose she is rather good-looking." 

"Those eyes!" 

"Quite." 

"That hair!" 

“Steady on, old girl!” said Reggie. “We’re meant to be easing things along for Nigel, remember?”

“Too late for that, I’m afraid,” she said, smiling in a self-satisfied manner. “You heard her. They’re quite unsuited.”

Reggie shrugged a resigned shoulder and hoisted his teacup. “Oh well. Bung-ho, then!”

\----

I left the place feeling considerably less enlightened than I had going in. The whole thing, I felt, was dashed confusing, and what’s more, rather unfortunate for poor old Nigel. I said as much to Reggie as we prepared to part ways at Dover Street.

“Rather rum luck,” I said. “Too bad for your pal Nigel, what?”

Reggie gave his umbrella a thoughtful twiddle. “These schemes of mine always seem to go pear-shaped,” he mused. “Although, they usually work out for _somebody_ in the end.”

“Well, that’s something, anyway.”

“That’s my philosophy. As long as someone is helped, that’s the great thing. Speaking of which, that was dashed good news for you, eh? All that about finding the person you seek and whatnot.”

I looked at him askance. “What are you talking about, you old ass? You know that wasn’t meant for me. That whole bit was supposed to be about Nigel and Myrtle. Besides, I’ve already got someone. I’m engaged to Lady Florence Craye.”

Reggie rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But you do have a vacancy in your life, do you not?”

“For a valet! Not for a ‘guide, philosopher and friend,’ or however that peculiar Nura beazel put it.”

“I’ve always felt a good valet was precisely that. Or at the very least, someone who will make sure you don’t leave home without your hat.”

“As long as he’s not a sock-pinching clomper, I shall be content. At any rate, I won’t need a valet for long. Just until I’m married.”

“Whatever you say, old top. Even so, maybe I’ll ask around for you. I’m bound to know somebody who knows a good chap looking for a new posish.”

“Jolly decent of you,” I said, although I wasn’t any too sure I wanted Reggie’s assistance with my personal affairs. 

He tipped his hat and took his leave. I didn’t know it at the time, but that would be the last I ever saw of him.


	4. Chapter 4

It seems a little rummy to me now, but in the excitement of the next several days, I very nearly forgot about the business of Reggie and the séance. The whole thing became a bit hazy in my mind, like some sort of half-remembered dream. 

It was a mere two or three days later that Jeeves abruptly manifested himself on my doorstep, and for the next few months, my life was more or less one adventure after another. First, my engagement to Florence went pfut in Jeeves’s capable hands. Then, I spent a certain amount of time biffing off to New York and biffing back again, followed shortly thereafter by the whole imbroglio with Honoria Glossop, after which I was obliged to biff off once more. It was quite a while before I had a chance to stop and catch my breath, let alone reflect on things to any great extent. 

Shortly after my return to London – following the second period of biffing off, not the first – I made my way to the Drones, longing for the cozy familiarity of the old home away. I was in the smoking room, puffing away on a contented gasper, when I became conscious of the distinct absence of anything in the shape of a Reggie Pepper. I searched the smoking room, even peering behind the settee, but could find neither hide nor hair of him. It occurred to me that I had not seen him on any of my previous visits, either. 

This puzzled me. Reggie had always been a fixture about the place, rather like the wainscoting in the dining room. It occurred to me that the dining room might be just the place to gather intelligence on the issue, since I had seen a few of the lads breakfasting there on my way in. I ankled my way thither and poked in the coconut. Freddie Widgeon hurled a bread roll at it, but I artfully dodged the missile. 

“I say!” I said. “Has anyone seen Reggie?” 

“Who the devil’s Reggie?” asked Oofy. 

“Reggie Pepper, you ass. Tall chap, wears a monocle. More or less lives in the smoking room.” 

“Never heard of him,” said Oofy, lobbing his own bread roll. I batted it away just before it struck me on the mazzard. 

“I’ve never heard of him either,” said Freddie. “You’re not already blotto, are you, Bertie? It’s not even half past noon.” 

“I am not blotto!” I said, a tad indignantly. “Are you telling me neither one of you fatheads has the slightest inkling of who I’m talking about?” 

“Not a smidge,” said Freddie. 

“None whatsoever,” agreed Oofy. 

“I know him,” said Barmy, who had been sitting in the corner, contemplating a cold egg. 

“No, you don’t, Barmy,” said Oofy patiently. 

“I don’t?” 

“No. There’s no such person.” 

“Oh,” said Barmy. “Sorry, Bertie. I don’t know him.” 

I toddled out with knitted brows and stooped shoulders. I was so distrait that I barely registered the sensation of a roll hitting me squarely in the seat of my trousers. 

Further inquiries among the other denizens of the Drones were equally unfruitful. Old Rogers gave me the most peculiar look, but assured me that there was no such person currently listed in the club registry. I went home baffled and defeated. 

\---- 

“Jeeves,” I said, as the good fellow relieved me of my hat and stick at the threshold of my flat a short while later, “I have a mystery on my hands.” 

“Indeed, sir?” 

“Yes, Jeeves. A fellow member of the Drones has gone missing.” 

“That is most unfortunate, sir. When was the gentleman last seen?” 

“That’s just the thing, Jeeves,” I said, depositing myself in the armchair and lighting a pensive cigarette. “It seems he hasn’t been seen at all, at least not by any living soul other than myself.” 

“Most peculiar, sir.” 

“It’s as if the blighter never existed. Nobody’s heard of him except Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps, and you know what Barmy’s like.” 

“Very true, sir.” 

“Have you ever heard of someone named Reggie Pepper, Jeeves?” 

He got that grave look on his map that indicates deep thinking is afoot, and I was briefly hopeful. But my hopes were soon dashed on the craggy shores of a simple “No, sir.” 

“You’re absolutely sure of this? You’ve never heard his name on the lips of a pal or colleague? I know he employs a man. Speaks dashed highly of him, as a matter of fact. He even said he’d have the fellow try and put in a good word for me among the unattached valets of the world, when he found out I was in need of one.” 

The grave look deepened, but he shook his head. “No, sir. I do not recall hearing any mention of this gentleman before today, nor was I alerted to your vacancy by an acquaintance. I received a wire from someone at the agency, and I proceeded to your flat directly the next morning.” 

I heaved a weary s. “Oh well. I suppose it was a long shot. Thanks anyway.” 

“However . . .” 

I perked up. “Yes, Jeeves? Do you have something?” 

“It is hardly worth mentioning, sir. Merely an odd train of thought.” 

“Go on.” 

“Very good, sir. During my brief service in the war, I was acquainted with a young man named Wilberforce, who had been employed by a Lt. Pepper. Wilberforce spoke very highly of his employer, and frequently expressed a desire to rejoin his entourage after returning to civilian life.” 

“Well, good lord, Jeeves, why didn’t you mention this before? He could very well be the same chap! Old Reggie’s certainly about the right age to have been an officer in the war, although he never mentioned it to me. Quite possibly this Wilberforce remembered you and told someone at the agency to toss you a line.” 

“It is extremely unlikely, sir.” 

“What makes you say that?” 

He bowed his head slightly, and seemed suddenly quite captivated by his shoes. “Both men were killed in action, sir,” he said at last. 

\---- 

I spent the rest of the day feeling restless and ill at ease. I tossed and turned for most of the night, and when I awoke, the sleeve of care still felt decidedly unraveled. I pushed away most of my breakfast untasted, declared my intention to go for a walk, and oiled unhappily out. 

I trudging along Piccadilly, lost in thought, when my attention was arrested by a familiar sight. I had just come abreast of a little tearoom. Casting my gaze up to the window above it, I found my suspicions confirmed. There, in said window, was a hand-lettered sign:

MADAME NURA  
SPIRITUALIST · PSYCHIC · MEDIUM

I felt my stomach do several back somersaults. I knew full well what I ought to do, but I found myself suddenly cat i’ the adaging. I would be deceiving my public if I said that I relished the idea of returning to that creepy joint, even for the briefest of social calls.

I paced around on the walkway for what felt like an eternity, trying to work up the nerve to go up. It dawned on me at last that a little fortification, in the shape of a buttered roll and some tea, was what the situation called for. I squared my shoulders and plunged into the tearoom. 

I had barely made it through the door when somebody hallooed in the vicinity of my right elbow. A brief inspection revealed that it was none other than Madame Nura, looking dashed natty in a cloche, wire-rimmed spectacles, and tweed suit with trousers. 

“Well, well,” she said. “If it isn’t our mysterious young interloper!” 

“What ho, my jolly old pronouncer of peculiar portents,” I replied, for one likes to be civil. 

“Why don’t you join me?” she said, patting the chair beside her. “I’m just waiting for Myrtle.” 

I sat. “See a lot of Myrtle these days, do you?” 

“I do,” she replied happily. “She’s my assistant now.” 

I raised the eyebrows a bit. “Oh, ah? Is she a medium, too?” 

She shook the bean. “Dear Myrtle is . . . sensitive to the spirit world, and most wonderfully open-minded. However, she does not possess the Sight.” 

“I see.” 

“The most tragic thing is that that chump Nigel she used to hang about with _did_ have it. He just didn’t know.” 

“Did he really?” 

“Oh, yes. That’s more common than you think, you know. A lot of people have it, but it doesn’t do them much good if they lack the awareness to understand what they’ve got.” 

“Listen,” I said, not particularly wishing to linger on the topic at hand, “I’ve got a question for you.” 

“Certainly, my dear.” 

“Have you seen Reggie recently?” 

“You mean our friend Mr. Pepper?” 

“That’s the chap.” 

“Oh, yes. I see him all the time. Tell me, did he help you find who you were looking for? He said he was going to try and send someone your way.” 

I shivered a bit. “Well, I got a new valet, if that’s what you mean. But I’m not sure that Reggie had anything to do with it.” 

“Well? Tell me about this new man. How is he working out for you?” 

“In the short time he has been with me, he’s somehow induced me to part with several of my most prized possessions, has knocked the stuffing out of two of my engagements and danced on the remains in hobnailed boots, and has managed to convince one of England’s preeminent nerve specialists that I am a certifiable lunatic.” 

“Dear me. That does sound like Reggie’s handiwork.” 

“But he does not clomp,” I went on. “He floats from place to place like a vapour. Nor does he pinch things, and he has never allowed me to set the merest foot out of doors without my hat or my handkerchief. What’s more, he has never once failed to fish me or any pal of mine out of the soup. In short, the man is a marvel.” 

Nura smiled. “A guide, philosopher and friend. Old Reggie gets it right sometimes, you know. His schemes always work out, one way or another.” 

I shivered a second time. “Tell me, old girl. Do you think I’ll see Reggie again?” 

“You may,” she said, “or you may not. Don’t feel bad if you don’t. He doesn’t stick around if he feels he’s no longer needed in a pal’s life. He is the master of the quiet sidle. He once told me that it is his policy to exit stage left the moment he feels he’s come to a scene in which he is not on.” 

I leaned forward, and dropped the voice a decibel or two. “Let me ask you one more thing. Is Reggie a—” 

But I never got to finish the question. Myrtle showed up, and after a few pleasantries, I did a little quiet sidling of my own, for I had the distinct sense that my presence was no longer required.

\---- 

You see what I mean, what? Dashed mysterious. I never have gone back to Madame Nura to try and hash the thing out any further. I suppose some part of me really isn’t too keen on knowing the answer. 

I haven’t seen Reggie since, but I suppose someday he might come popping back into my life. In the meantime, I raise my glass to the old boy, wherever he is.

_FIN_

**Author's Note:**

> Reggie Pepper is an odd little footnote in P. G. Wodehouse's body of work. Reggie was the direct precursor to Bertie Wooster. However, unlike Bertie, Reggie is alone in the world. He has no Jeeves to help him muddle through, and seemingly no permanent attachments. He drifts through his stories, makes bumbling efforts to help his friends, and usually ends up slinking quietly out of their lives after his latest scheme has gone completely off the rails. His intentions are always good, but nothing he attempts ever goes quite as planned. 
> 
> Wodehouse had at least a casual interest in the occult, and this is a subtle theme in a handful of the Reggie Pepper stories. The elusive Reggie struck me as the perfect subject for a little supernatural adventure. 
> 
> All but one of the Reggie Pepper stories are available [here](http://www.madameulalie.org/TitleMenu.html). 
> 
> "It seemed to me that this was a scene in which I was not on. I sidled to the door, and slid forth. They didn’t notice me. My experience is that nobody ever does—much." -- Reggie Pepper, "Concealed Art," 1915.


End file.
